


You Only Have Yourself to Blame

by StarsGarters



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, HYDRA Trash Party, Horrible Things, Medical Torture, Other, Psychological Torture, Rape, ambiguous gender of reader, autassassinophilia, i warned you, really turn back now, you do not want to read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3234095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the Reader just doesn't know what they're getting into...</p><p>DO NOT READ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Only Have Yourself to Blame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roryrhys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roryrhys/gifts).



It was supposed to be a simple extraction. You found the target in that shithole of a bar, it was supposed to be simple. You keep chanting that to yourself in your mind. _Breathe_. _Breathe_.  

So much red. Your mouth tastes like copper and regret. 

It hurts to blink, it hurts to think. Where's the med kit? Where's... your team?

 _Where's your team_? 

Over there. What's left of them.  _Breathe_.  _Breathe_. 

Good God, that's... Hawkins. You can tell by the engraved ring on the single finger lying on the ground next to you. He'd just gotten married to Sophie. You threw up mimosas at his reception. 

Can you walk? No. That's not an option by the way your ankle is twisted and the white hot surge of pain that travels up your leg when you twitch it. It's a different sort of pain than the ache in your temple. Pistol-whipped, that's right. You remember now. 

 _Breathe_.  _Breathe_. 

"So, you're awake. Took you long enough." The target. Brock Rumlow. Former STRIKE leader and right-hand of HYDRA traitor Alexander Pierce. His voice is raspy and amused. 

"Your team was sloppy. I've got no respect for people who can't be professional. I mean really? A honeypot? Like a sweet thing like you is going to try to pick  _me_ up in a bar. Well, maybe before my little accident, but now? Nobody finds skin grafts sexy." He kicks the side of your ankle with a booted foot, like you're a dog and laughs at your scream. "But thanks. I was getting bored."

He crouches down low and grabs your face in his hand, forcing you to look at him. There's blood spatter in his pomaded hair, brain matter and skull fragments across his black t-shirt. Which one of your team is dripping down that black cotton? Reynolds' wife just had twins. 

You're not going to cry.

"Why don't we have a little fun just like you offered in the bar." He tweaks your nose, almost playfully. "It might be more fun for me though. It usually is." He picks you up like you don't weigh anything. "Mind if we take your ride? I don't want to have to clean mine. This is gonna be messy."

He purrs into your ear and licks the side of your face before dumping you into the trunk of the sedan you rode in on. "Upsy daisy!" You black out from the impact, blessedly. 

It's cold. Very cold. Shock, that has to be it. You open your eyes and there's the target, playing with a blackened blade, his boots propped up on the edge of the table you are lying on. Where are you? Tiled walls. Florescent lights. A morgue? Why would a morgue table have restraints? 

"There you are! Welcome back." The office chair he's reclining in squeaks. "I have so many fond memories of this place." He gestures with the knife. "Used to take care of the Winter Soldier in here. You catch him yet?" You blink. And he pulls out a drawer, plucking out a bone saw and a collection of scalpels that gleam in the greenish light. "I thought not. Guy can hope though. You might have caught me off guard if I wasn't worried about that bastard dropping my ass. We've got history and he's not one to let a grudge go." 

"Seriously, you'd think he'd just be able to let bygones be bygones. It's not like he didn't heal real fast. And the mind-wipes took care of any residual _hurt feelings_." He leans over you and pets your hair. You try not to whimper. "Nobody ever appreciates everything that I've done."

He sighs heavily. "I think of myself as an artist, you know?" He flips the knife and absently draws a thin line with the tip across your cheekbone, the edge parting your skin. You can't avoid whimpering now and the gleam in his eyes makes you regret your weakness. "Instead of paint, I use  _other_ mediums."

He grabs your hand, crouches in close and puts one finger between his lips. He suckles noisily and his spit slathers your hand. You don't know what's louder, the animal sound that escapes your lips or the snap of your finger bone. "Oh sweet thing... I love the sounds you make."  

"And the best thing, my dear, is that you have nine left." He laughs and starts sing-songing, "You love me. You love me not. You love me. You love me _not_." And he snaps another finger like a wet twig. "Now if you beg for mercy, really convince me, I can make this stop." He dusts obscene kisses across the tears streaking down your face and his lips are red with your blood. 

You beg. You plead. You say anything that might offer a hint of respite. He runs his fingers through your hair and then grabs a fist full of it. He yanks your head to the side savagely and sneers, "Not _good_ enough." Then another finger snaps and your mind sinks into blackness. Merciful blackness. 

How can it be colder? You're shivering. Numb. You can't feel the pain of your head or your ankle, it is a mercy. You don't want to open your eyes. But you do, because he's humming a jaunty tune. It's not good when Brock Rumlow sings. 

Your clothing has been cut off. The only things left on you are your tightly laces boots. You're bleeding from dozens of small lacerations all over your body and he's finger-painting with your blood, drawing a smiley face on your stomach. He notices you flinch and laughs. He licks his fingers. "Rise and shine, sweet thing."

He wets his fingers again in your blood and strokes between your legs. "Look, you promised me this. In the bar. You can't go back on your word. That's what makes us better than the sheep. We're professionals. And you can take it, can't you?" It's an odd pep talk to be getting from a man covered in blood and brain matter. He nuzzles into your skin. "You smell so _good_. Like a battlefield." Then he shoves his bloody fingers savagely into your asshole and bites down on your stomach as you scream.

The last thing you hear before you black out again is his whine, "Oh _god_ _damn_ it. The Asset _never_ passed out this often. Fucking _amateurs_."

The snap of an ammonia smelling salts capsule awakens you so viciously that your head ricochets off the stainless steel table with a clang. "Welcome back! I didn't want you to miss this part." His hand is red to the wrist. Shock has set in from blood loss and you're hearing his voice as if from a great distance. "Let's take off these boots. Toenails are an underrated but truly classic method of causing pain." He slices the laces and pulls off the boot from your uninjured foot and then takes ahold of your wounded ankle, pulling hard. 

His face. His annoyed and pissed off face as he looks at the squirting stump of your leg. The boot was the only thing holding you together. And as your life flows out into the gutters of the steel table you can hear a high-pitched hysterical giggle. And for the first time this horrible night, Brock Rumlow _isn't_ the one laughing. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You don't want to know what I left out. I could feel my soul blackening as I typed this.


End file.
